Unmindful of the roses,
  Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
  Among his gathered corn:
  So might I, till the morn!

Cold as the cold Decembers,
  Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
  And all the rest forget,--
  But one remembers yet.

Clasp of silvers twice as thin as each other
Both flat to end in its impact
Its echo does not repeat but lingers like static that makes you think of gold.
Drifting in an ascending melody that
Climbs the senses in your ears as much as your skin.

They lead us steadily
To the edge of the mountains and then stops abruptly.
Stopped incredibly as if it's afraid and timid.
Strings play so thinly as each are all skinny.
A miracle moving like smoke and gas welcomes her.

Slow dance in arpeggios, a glimpse of perfection for harmony, tip by tip
And in her quiver
She laments she'll wait forever.

Forever it may be til she is in the arms of the lover.
For the end of all thousand Decembers and Januarys
Undyingly and endlessly.
Anywhere you go
Seek the thunder you wander far and near, wide and narrow.

Until I hear you sigh
Until you stop holding your breath under the brim of our wishing well.

And each snowflake–
Distinct and different
Falls and is caught
In your thimbleweed-lashes
As it flutters against my cheek,
Against butterfly kisses,
In the Central Park.
And there we were
Nothing but frostbites
And mothers’ mittens
And childhood spirits.
Bells begin to ring,
Like the ones from
Years of yesterdays.
And what you did back then
Was let each snowflake–
Distinct and different,
Fall upon you
Like magic sprinkled on a dream.

"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers

Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself

He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man

To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces

He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes

He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished

"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching

A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons

I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.


I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.


You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.


The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?


Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches


Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch  as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings


The world does not understand love


nor the poets that create it.

quiet desperation has landed
loudly upon my face

youth-fueled dreams faded
promises now weighted
down
to aching
inside my rib cage
to my stomach pit
for someoneness
for somewhereness
for
me

immobilized and
frighteningly uninspired
standing on the edge
of great love
or the collapse of the coward
relief drives a hard bargain

Tonight, let’s take God hostage
throw Him in the backseat
have Him show us around town

We're "those kids"
spending our afternoons learning how to do handstands on nail beds
The ones that foresee failure and live in the moment
Sit on street corners and barter for advice

Let's treat this world as an etch-a-sketch
For we are nothing more than flecks of aluminum looking for a physical reaction

More like soul mates than friends
If you fused us all together you might have one functioning addition to society

Making wishes at 11:11

Looking for beauty in air,
We breathe out to give inspiration to sonnets

Dreaming of switchblades and palm trees, we sit next to the fire
Our feet shoved in embers, burning off the memories of passing Decembers

We pass a flask of whiskey and daydreams
Keeping our mouths sealed tight around the top

Nobody remembers but he won't forget
so many Novembers that he can't regret
and the few Decembers that  they managed to get
to light burning embers ,fond memories till date

Camping as only two members, night fires till late
Watching stars twinkle, eyes travelling interstellar
the great fables and love stories he used to tell her
drunk from sweet wines he coveted for his dream cellar
when he narrated inspirationals of guys like Rockefeller
and she convinced him he'd someday write a bestseller

The daily stroll especially in twilight
crazy dances right in the moonlight
the color and florets during any date night
the mourns of pleasure after star gazing till midnight
the promises of for better and for plight*

Nobody remembers but he won't forget
so many Novembers that he can't regret
and the few Decembers that  they managed to get
to light burning embers, fond memories till date

Holding on
For years;
Dangling
Fighting
Struggling,
Through snowy Decembers,
Lights strung up
branch to branch,
Through awakened April's
tulips reaching skyward
Through smoggy Augusts
Blonde beauty's sunbathing in the grass
The leaf had seen it all
But in the blink of an eye
The tree became old
The roots became withered
As did the leafs grip on the branch
And a final autumn
Came to rest in the air
And the leaf began
Reminiscing of being green
And full of life again,
It continued to let go
More
And more,
Until one day,
the leaf fell from the tree.
Brown
And shriveled
Falling
And sailing
Through the breeze.
Once the leaf changed its color,
It did not go back.
The leaf will never be attached
To the branch ever again.
So there it stayed,
Lying on the ground
Tossing and turning,
For another eternity.
-----------------------
He seems happy
I should just let go

(...)
It is perhaps this association between birth and beginning each school year which led me to respect knowledge. The entire month of August tends to fly by, unnoticed, in anticipation of the day I see children forced back into ill-ventilated buildings to emulsify themselves in education, for knowledge. Knowledge, that Moloch of an idea! Hobbies, interests and Summertime activities were heaped on flaming tongues with words in order to illustrate their ultimate insignificance. We hoped to bring out the blessing of wisdom from its mouth. “What matters is the coming Winter, not the frivolous activities of undisciplined youths.” It is as if the leaves of every tree were humanity's hair, and August had pulled back every strand to blow the woodsy breath of Autumn smoke into life’s ear. "You won't be this way forever." I am yet seduced by Fall’s cryptic murmurings and led to believe in endless, Halcyon flight. With arms draped around us from behind, knowledge draws me into oblivion, with unlabeled memories and I throw my desires into Moloch’s mouth. Now that I am burning, my self is the voice of this demigod. My birth certificate is my body, holding a memory to be inscribed on some later form beside some other numbers. Life has only so many Decembers.
(...)

I'm obsessed with the vision's edge
How we look straight but there's always a sideview
Looking right through
The glass of a picture frame
The image splattered my name
On every newspaper, a cheap kind of fame
The sideview shows the real me
The kind of person who I'd be
If I'd sent this body out to sea
In that funeral pyre blazing to the sky
Mom and Dad think that I'm too young to die
But you're never too young to be that one guy
Your friends see on the tv with a nice little snippet
Of how you hated your thread so you got up and clipped it
But your parents will talk to the reporters and flip it
Say you were so great, so happy and nice
Always the one to give the good advice
The one crossing the street as you looked both ways twice
And the truth is you were already cold as ice
You tried to cry out but they nodded with grins
And they looked at you pondering and stroking their chins
And in this situation there's no one that wins
Because there's always a bridge or a cliff to jump off
When the stress level rises set off by a cough
Or you just up and choose to dive into the trough
And get eaten by pigs, digit by digit
And since you don't give a ****, you don't even fidget
When they bite off your legs and leave you a ******
But size doesn't matter, you're dead in a few
And it's not as if you have to choose what to do
In the end your fate is just pay per view
Because you'll be there, it's you that is dying
But the life negation requires none of your trying
So you can sit back relax and just watch it
There's more than one way so it's hard to botch it
Your death is the end, because there's nothing else to it
You once had a life but you up and you blew it
There was **** to be done but you just said "***** it"
And it's true, it's your life, and you have control
But before you eat lead, put the thought on parole
Give yourself minutes or days to rethink
A miscalculation of that size would stink
Set up some goals, some silly, some not
Of things to accomplish before you hit the black cot
Where they stick all the toe-tagged
The black-bagged
The life-gagged
The death-filled
The over-pilled
All those singing from their throats
Bleeding like goats
From the knife wounds like Abraham
Would've done in just seconds, ****
But the voiceless have no spokesman saying
"Hey world, there was no point in staying!"
There's always a point, and you've just got to find it
Once you do, wrap your mind and bind it
Obsess yourself with the point of staying
Remember the steepest price you'll be paying
Sometime in the future, but now be braying
The call of the stubborn, those that won't leave
The ******* with something in which to believe
I'm one of those ******* and we need more members
To warm up the cold of Depression Decembers
Obsessing about the vision's edge
The only thing that kept me on the safe side of the ledge
When I was seconds from falling down
The sideview turned my *** around
Gotta find the source of the curious periphery
Curiousity killed the cat, but the sideview saved me

(Verse 1)
Write a letter
Pray the tides will change
Don't forget her
In lands so cold, so strange

Sing horizon
Show me where she left off
She is smiling
Waiting for me to come on home

(Bridge)

(Verse 2)
Keep me alive
Past the winter and summer days
Help me survive
So I'll meet a tender embrace

Never let go
Pray for the safest of returns
Within I know
I will find my way back home

(Chorus)
Summer day (Summer days)
Summer nights (Summer nights)
Some are simple way of holding you

Winter moons (Winter moons)
Winter lights (Winter lights)
Wandering on earth, but on my way back home

(Bridge)

(Verse 3)
Looking onward
Keeping him locked in my mind
Pressing forward
Never leaving him behind

No more sorrow
Make Decembers feel like June
Maybe not tomorrow
But I know he'll be home soon

(Bridge)

(Verse 4)
I am waiting
See the ocean toss and turn
Past the shading
Of my skin, my soul does burn

Never wonder
I give love to you alone
Never cast asunder
Is my love, he's coming home

(Chorus)
Summer day (Summer days)
Summer nights (Summer nights)
Some are simple way of holding you

Winter moons (Winter moons)
Winter lights (Winter lights)
Wandering on earth, but on my way

Summer day (Summer days)
Summer nights (Summer nights)
Some are simple way of holding you

Winter moons (Winter moons)
Winter lights (Winter lights)
Wandering on earth, but on my(your) way back home
Wandering on earth, but on the way back home
Dearest love, just know my love is safe at home

(End)

I want to light this flame again
Joyously rekindle my tiny hope
That one day we retry what happened when
I looked into love’s kaleidoscope

It could never be exactly the same
Without warming those frozen decembers
Just like a fire, with no similar flame
We could never retrieve these dying embers

Worship dies on Sundays
Companionship claims no more days
Hardship wins over all the days
And on these days everyone prays
Prays for less tomorrows and more todays
For less Decembers and more Mays
For less to burn and more to graze
They pray in greed
And not in grace

Our finches carry on without government
Robins are free , song filled and independent
The autumn trees ne'er proclaim a 'leader'
A catbird tends to it's affairs without a throng
of 'believers'
The homing pigeons squawk at my propensity for guitar , pen and paper , raw penchant for melody , song and fable
My friends are a shut door , a curtain pulled closed , a light switch clicked to off , a compulsion for sweet silence , a star in the western horizon
Blazed and glazed at night am I
Getting right with Randolph at twilight* ..

A powder cover blankets streets
As she rest on my chest
The snowflakes fell, Decembers waltz
My hand in hers, she pressed.

All day we’d hide beneath those sheets
Her love was like a home
Hazel eyes, like Autumn skies
A voice like a song.

She was perfect in my eyes
But time began to tick
Our love grew tall, and we grew old
And she grew very sick.

By her side, I’d sit for months
To see her lovely smile
Then seasons changed and she grew weak
My heart still in denial.

Then one day, I looked to her
A smile on my face
I asked if she had one last wish
But she had no strength to say.


I waited on, still by her side
Until the day it came
A long white line upon a screen
Her life, the cancer claimed.

I sat beside her, devastated
Time’s hourglass had tilted
Like pedals on a lovely rose
My rose had finally wilted.

I kissed her head one final time
Then pressed my hands to hers
But held inside her palm, a note
Named “These, my final words.”

As I opened the note in tears
I found these words for me
“You asked me for a final wish
I did not wish to leave.

But if I had one final wish
Beneath those sheets, we’d lay
My head, I’d rest upon your chest
December everyday.”

Kind of like
when the flames licked up
what I called home,
And every blink
came with a prayer
of waking up,
just the same
I still haven't.
the last time I saw you
my heart red like embers
like your eyes,
and they met mine so empty.
I think back to the past two decembers
wanting and then
having you,
and next
you're just one more person I've hurt
to remember,
left in my chain of
avoidable destruction.
resuscitate
your flashing glances
into sounds that say
you forgive me,
but wishful thinking
is the root of heartbreak
I really don't need
another.

I've drunk of the wine of spring

and been intoxicated by the lush sweetness of it's life

I've basked in the sky of the cool summer night

and felt the myriad stars beckoning to my soul

I've felt autumns bitter chill settling into my bones

as the leaves turned scarlet red and knew that winter was near

I've felt the frozen bite of Decembers icy winds wrap me

in their lifeless embrace and steal the warmth from my heart

Buttoning his red jacket,
the lights of his apartment,
all burnt out,
his tiny plastic radio,
statically oozes a sad long performance,
of something incredible,
something that hurts the spine,
and makes him,
sit down on the floor,
His window is dark,
though the sun,
may come up any moment,
passionately exposing it self,
over tall romantic brick downtown city buildings,
made of something too incredible,
to paint,
There is a sound,
there is a love,
there is a death,
there is a dog,
a ***** who never loved,
and her High heeled Stiletto Siren Song Shoes,
are immortal,
close enough to the grave yard,
where her mother was buried 100 times ago,

I pray,
I dip my ******* Vinegar burn,
There are no
Decembers
There is no,
Crimson Highlight of dawn,

His mind is an old Blue car,
stuck in R,
a drunk driver,
Taxi-ing Tourists to hell,
Nevada crumbles like old make up on a woman’s,
tired face,

how long
will a kiss last,
as the sun,
breathes down your neck,
how long,
will beauty last,
standing ****,
in winter,
Barely starving.
I am forged Dream Catcher,
I am prosthetic limb,
holding onto a false Diamond,
Rhyming Georgia's Orange enveloped letter,
never to be returned,
never to be read,
never to be painted Green,
like the personification Mortality
or a strand
of her Night Rose hair,
still in a drawer,
next to a broken lighter.

We have always been bigger...
than stars.
The sky a stage
spoken intimacies
of velvet hearts
and ***** hands.

I wander the comet of
truth with moon-filled
eyes. Waiting, bow-shaped.

I couldn't help but notice
those constellations were
made for sin.

Stealing glances of
tightened skin too explosive
to retract.

Tiny pools of passing rain
drag an ellipsis around my tongue.

And from this side of Babel
light glares inside
sprouting roots.

Silver Cerulean Decembers
bundle themselves
winter by winter.

Cloaked by the tree,
a heaven of insistence and glass.

Words falling weightless-
sun bleached leaves
into palms of hands.

Glimmering abyss of
infinite ice, fractured bloodless
upon starless earth.

Saliva brushed shock
Alkaline flesh-
on napkins that
hold, what they
have forgotten.

Avoidable words
that keep us fed...
back to my chamber heart.

Every single time.

Dear love , my dear
I hold you in my embrace
As the fire dances amongst the trees
Casting shadows on Decembers lawn
A blanket of chill
But it shall not snake it's way against your skin
While I
Hold you...
You ask me of my past
But my past is not my present
I have escaped
Its angry cloak
I would rather make moments to be
Remembered
Now
With you so soft
And small
A warriors bride
For you are glass with a core of steel
And your cracks always heal
Your brown hair
Curtains shy eyes
To insucure
To gaze at mine
Though I can feel you want to
Just let go
And let the stars guide you

I am decembers darkest hour
a withered lover, a withered flower
a heart broken, blackened in two
a half for me, and a half for you
I am the forgotten love, you desired
the pouring rain, and muffled fire
the love you lost, the deepening hate
a bitter taste, this predesitined fate
desire not
desire now
desire not
desire how
I am the knowledge of the love you lost
happiness sacrificed upon the cross
blink the poisonous tears from your eyes
an acidic face of untold lies
feel the turture deep inside
where coldness spreads, and warmth died
desire not
desire now
desire not
desire how?

Spring's rain and winds have blown away;
Summer has died and Autumn too.
But in the sad emptiness of my heart
Winter beckons me to its cold embrace.
It is now so many long Decembers past
Since I lost the one true love of my life;
No, she did not die, I cast her out proudly
As she refused to leave her unloved spouse.
A victim of religious hypocrisy.
And now we both dread the future on our own,
Self-pitying victims of our idiotic pride.

I was wading through the dust which slept in my room as I have done for too long,
And finding its sullen grey between shelves, atop books, across screens and sometimes on my sheets.
Many articles of interest in this room, certainly, but mostly?
Dust.
And I plunged into a drawer with curious hands like a child in a sandbox,
And I found that letter you wrote me last December.
Or was it the December before?
The one where your heart bled from your chest, ran down your arms and saturated the page.

You know the one.

Anyway, I read it. Every word.
And then I folded it up, neatly, and placed it back in the drawer from which I had found it,
Much to the dust's pleasure.

I'm moving out now. The way I had always talked about.
Getting a place with some close friends.
(Who will probably become dire enemies.)
It's why I've been rummaging through all of my old ****.
Grandma wants this to be a sewing room. I've got a lot of cleaning out to do, you know.
I'm becoming a man now. An impervious, veteran adult.
But sometimes, amidst the dust - maybe it's ash - I feel a pair of hands
Wrenching apart my insides while I recall the words in that letter.
And I remember how your heart sang to me, and I remember every note.
Every coda; its pianos and its fortes.
Your heart has written other songs now,
With warmer tambre and vivid trebles.
And this 'adult' wonders, amidst dust and ash, why he deafened himself.

Two Decembers ago.
Or was it one?

I am not wanted here.

I was happy then, because there were eight.
I was happy because it smelt like ash and ukuleles;
rushing water that could very
very well break my neck.

I smiled and you smiled back
blinded by a flash of everything,
anything that happened in Decembers and Februaries
and the warm air, lying thick on the back of your neck
melted that flash clean until all I saw -
all any of us saw -
were blinking images of ourselves.
caught unaware and griping but also so very happy.

It smelt like summer, like tires speeding up, up
higher and higher until we crashed into the sky and fell down,
cratering holes as acid rain.

I use the term I miss you as loosely as the string I tie around my index finger so that l don't forget to never use that phrase again.
Because I miss the person who came with Decembers wind chill not the person who left in June's volcanic ash.
Sometimes I wonder if you can feel the ache when you press ******* to where your pulse should be but then I remember that you're most definitely cold blooded.
And you can't feel unless you fake it.
And I most likely never really mattered like an animal in a cage.
But I could've sworn that you felt it. The pain before the punch hits.
And the pleasure of me screaming through the lies and the regret.
I know I'd listen to your answering machine a million times if your voice could make my ears clean again.
But I am not your scapegoat
Do you even remember?
I think you don't because you would've cared more
And you would've been there when I needed you but instead you're stuck upside down.
In a car that should've killed you.

Once down the old Caledonian road,
There walked a broken man
Who walked all on his own.
Entombed in tattered cloak
Against Decembers cold,
The man fell to pavement
Fell to pavement all alone.

None would descend from
High misguided thrones,
Have a heart and pass the starving
Man a bone.
And not a soul would stop and save him.
Once down the old Caledonian road.

Our life together is often linked by golden songs
Of moments captured, warm and true and rare
Those songs that carry memories, they often speak for me
Sewn into words reflecting how we care

Crazy Mr Bowie could always rock our world
And John's sunshine voice always warmed us so
And Fern knew that together we were beautiful
Though we were all revved up with no place to go

And they lifted us with their own dreams and visions
And we smile and dance and fall around the room
And recall the joys that wove us close together
But after all this time, and after all those songs
Someone else's words just won't do

For 40 Decembers, I sang with someone else's voice
I let so many strangers declare my love for you
But now it's time to tell my girl what she really means to me,
And on this day, someone else's words won't do

So, I recall the winding roads of expectation
And the First Class sound of brass in summer sun
And feel the drizzle of mountainside while we lay in each others arms
And that crazy mixed up joy of being young

I'm ever grateful for that day I saw your smiling face
Expecting someone else to grace my view
And I never shall regret the paper ring I forged
Or the beautiful adventure it led us to

And though I'm grateful to the poets for their sentiments
And the thousand vibrant voices that have shined
Using someone else's words to speak to you today
Won't be enough to speak for me this time

Remember.....

It was cold, but it was sunny, the week of Christmas, that aint funny!
I was hungover, like a ****, stood nervously, before the clerk
But you were there, and you were fine, so beautiful, and you shined
That was our day, we'd be one, though they said we were too young
We faced the world, and we signed, your slender hand, warm in my mine
And there it began, our mystery ride, with my girl, my love, my bride

You're my lady of the Rhododendrums, don't you know?
The Prettiest nurse that ever nursed me through
And though the pretty valleys always captivated us
Gelert's graceful beauty always bowed to you

You are my friend and my ambassador
The beauty of the beast
You're the mistress of my madness
And the the Princess of my peace

For my lady of the Rhododendrums dancing in your hair
Thank you for always being at my side
With sparkling smile and giving soul, and a heart that is laid bare
My precious wife, my lovely blushing bride

So please accept this humble song with love from me
After 40 years I finally came through
It won't make sun shine down upon your shoulders
But I'm the only one who knows the inner you

And it's not someone else's words
Not other people's words
But this song
This simple song
Is only for you
I sing this song for you

I am going to buy
A ******* cowboy hat
And lick the heels of suicide
For my 25th
I invited all the guys at work
Then followed with a disclaimer
" i am not responsible for any distasteful or aggressive acts i may, and am planning to, commit at this dysfunctional function"
And the kid at work said
"Ill try to make it, i gotta see this, but i made plans with my girlfriend. Im gonna try to get out of it."
"Just bring her along" i suggested
"Im not takin her anywhere near you man, your disgusting" says the kid
And i didnt mind too much
Because i have skin like a vulture
And am currently reading the
Complete works of De Sade
But i have also read Dostoyevsky's
"White Nights"
And i almost cried
But the kid doesn't need to know that
Let him know me only as the wild
Drunk
That he has heard so much about
Those stories are far more interesting
Than love and loneliness anyways.
I laughed.
"Well...let me know if you can ditch the broad man"
I walked to the break room and read
De Sade's list of different ways to eat
Human ****
He sure got creative in prison
It all made me laugh
Then the girl with the dark tangled
Burning forests hair walked in
And she smelled of the
Death of winter
Pulsating green and the sludge of
Forgotten Decembers
And i could  taste
What Justine was trying so hard
To protect
Well....anyways....
Heres to 25 down
And 25 more to go.
I am the fool
Like Ironheart.

Tell me a story
I want to fall in love with a character
And forget myself inside a sway of frightful emotions

Tell me a story
About sailors, lovers, monks, and businessmen. About the end of the world. About sleepless nights

Tell me about the poet
Who lived in the woods. The forgetful snow of Canadian Decembers. The lifecycle of a Grizzly Bear

Convince me
That life is but a dream
That if we only try hard enough
We could create a happy ending

Convince me
That life has a beginning and an end.
That every human being is unique
That all of us is worth remembering

Tell me a story
A story to be told in my deathbed
While I fight for an ounce of attention
To hear another human being

Many nights I have spent wishing you would come back
I'd combat the thoughts of you with numbing substance
pressing random buttons forming words and sentences.
I have mentioned this about you a couple thousand times
"each succeeding line is all written in the presence of her
as the nights bother the days; I've spent minutes dazed,
felt crazed that she would be so far and so distant".
People say time heals all wounds, as if tombs would open up
and frozen hearts would start to roam the Earth once again.
It's all a fantasy, to fantasise a world where time heals wounds
is like repainted rooms would had not once held the colours before,
the pretence and second layer is a covered decor, it's fictitious
to witness the ticking of time and suggest that scars fade,
and part ways are path ways that don't necessarily mean anything.
Times don't heal scars, nor do they properly heal the wounds,
the tunes that once shared between two people in tune still hurt
and words spoken between the two lips and heard by the two ears
are fears of memories still trying to dig itself out of the coffin
buried beneath the passage of time and the belief that everything is okay.
It isn't okay...
It hasn't been okay...
Time is supposed to heal wounds but I'm consumed by the memories
the Decembers, the Februarys; months go by and the scars are still there
the wounds are still bare to the touch and all I can do is open up
the poison that numbs the feeling.
It isn't okay...
It hasn't been okay...
They keep telling me time heals all wounds, but the golden minutes
only brings up old memory visits that lead me back to where you lay.
I'd play would you rather with you one more time if I could talk to you,
but time undoes what I couldn't do. Time keeps passing and it's letting me
still remember you and for that I am thankful.

I love you.
One more year has passed.